Festivalul Internațional de Poezie București

Târgul Național al Cărții de Poezie

 13 - 17 mai, 2015. Video 2015

Poems – Adam Borzič

Adam BorzičPoemele de mai jos aparțin poetului Adam Borzič. Scriitorul va participa la Festivalul Internaţional de Poezie București 2014.

 

Textele sunt în limba engleză.

 

 

BARCELONA OUTCRIES FROM MY GLASS HEAD

 

I understand the artist to be someone who, amidst the silence of others,

uses his voice to say something, and has the obligation that this thing

not be useless but something that offers a service to man.

Joan Miró

 

 

1. An Outcry Begun on Montjuic

 

My glass inner head

revealed on JupiterMountain in Barcelona!

My glass head of baleful bolero!

I open my fourth eye therein,

whose sorrow devours the crab,

the hungry fledgling

stuck in the colourful nets of a cracked TV. 

 

Europe!

Inside my glass head!

I carry you inside a transparent bump

heavy and taciturn,

heavy and locked,

heavy and impassable

your sleepy precarious sorrow on the metro.

All those locked faces,

all those hearts on their chains,

desires on credit, dreams shackled

with the slimy strings of advertising.

Are you our Saviour? I ask

the Chinese musician in the underpass,

and he continues playing his American worn-out song

somewhere among the green hummocks floating in the fog.

I want a dragon to flash out of those nearly blind slits of his

and fly up toward the euro skies

his fiery shiver inspiring fear in the covetous monsters.

Are you our saviour, I ask the brown waitress

with a round nose and hot cleavage,

she is silent and I want to throw myself at her tired feet and pray for an earthquake.

I exit the restaurant and the inscription

INDEPENDÉNCIA – SOCIALISMO

sprayed on the ragged wall

causes me to tremble like a November leaf.

Desire! Then on the boulevard of the rich

I bounce again into human walls.

 

I cannot help myself,

the subjugated world swims inside a glowing aquarium,

bones and cacti, blood cells and sperm cells,

Mary’s menstruation blood, into which I gently plunged my finger,

trillions of sighs, spider web strands of thoughts and black bile.

For the living melancholy has wound itself around my arms,

seeping inside me, and I, weary of its floating,

on my own Ship of Fools, dare the following appellation:

 

Injustice is injustice.

 

 

2. An Outcry Begun on Placa del Sol 

 

Roosters and hens

perched underneath three reflectors on the square-shaped square?

That’s how your evil eye would have it,

loaned to you by the aging marquis

in leather pants.

Alright, I still take it,

roosters frighten death

and there’s a church in Jerusalem,

with the holy Hen – that’s Jesus

protecting the chickens with his halo,

just look it up in the Bible.

The Sun Square is now covered

with barely foliaged youth.

Since I was a child, the sun has breathed onto the back of my neck.

It burnt a hole into every single poem I wrote at 16.

SUN IS GOOD, GOOD HAPPINESS

I would stutter in the euphoria of young love.

Afterward THE SUN REPUBLIC shone up,

with a Jewish friend we would smoke it out of our marijuana fingers,

at the Černý most dam, near the abominable block of flats he lived in,

and where the Sun never shone.

Did we know Campanella or Ficino back then?

I don’t even know now.

 

Today, at the Placa del Sol

surrounded by youth I haven’t the courage to accost the dealers

selling red beer-cans and opaque bags of weed.

Where have you gone, my youth?

Will I venture out toward the young Sun?

Are the youth at this square the Sun?

Squares are occupied by the youth elsewhere in this country.

Puerta dela Sol.

Maybe they really are the Sun.

Will I give their time some time,

or will I disappear in the fossilised lyricism

of my own self?

 

 

3. An Outcry Begun in the La Seu cathedral

 

As my glass head aims for the higher stories of the Sun Country

a door appears, and behind it, geese.

Goose dance in the cathedral’s paradisal courtyard.

Out of sheer amazement at the white whirl

I cave in on high, myself becoming a door.

A strong wind passes through me, turning the world inside out.

Bird bodies give form to a fluttering rainbow.

Underneath the rainbow on two floating chairs sit two teachers.

One has a fringe, the other one doesn’t, both are supine

their eyes encircled by stern lines.

The one teaches me music in motion and the other music in feeling.

Both point upwards into the steep satin of the skies.

Not knowing what to do, I cave in on further up

and in the folds of the celestial goblet I catch a glimpse

of a green skirt fluttering. The very essence of womanhood

elevates me into mighty vertigo.

Meanwhile the goose beaks stream with waterfalls of light.

And every waterfall is a Mother-Child connection.

I rotate inside a mandorla. I rotate inside an egg.

My eyes are shut in my glass head

observing from the inside how light draws me in between ship masts.

I myself am a ship sailing motionlessly in the whirlpools of airy seas.

Maria del Mar and I are one body – the excited streaming

of ship missiles, the excitedly amorous thundering skies.

I lose my head and my glass head turns into a sapphire lizard of the heart,

my sex reacts to this sea ecstasy fiercely –

with a humble erection.

 

 

4. An Outcry Begun at the Foot of the Güell Park

 

From behind the tenuous cloudy curtain emerges the mild autumn sun.

In an almost religious euphoria my glass head ascends the Gaudí hill.

Near the foot in the carved-out bus-stop through the trellis I can see the city below

and a house nearby with the upper storey all covered in sprayed inscriptions:

OCCUPY AND RESIST

and next to it reads WE KNOW YOUR PARADISE

and WELLCOME INTO THE HELL OF FREEDOM

and to the left of the inscriptions there’s the encircled neon letter -A.

In addition to it there are a few sharply sketched head outlines, green extra-terrestrials

and advertisement coconut trees littered with coconuts,

clothes on a line, hemp in a flowerpot, sunglasses on a windowsill,

ashtray full of cigarette butts and a colourful towel over a low banister.

My glass head keeps reeling, wheeling and whirling.

Out-of-breath tourists click their cameras like there’s no tomorrow.

 

The wind carries me off onto another Barcelona hill.

/We always return to where we headed out from,

recognising the place for the first time./

Amid the trees that smell of sperm stands Joan Miró.

Dressed up like a worker from the 20s,

his hand munching his hat, his eyes meekly staring at the ground.

Then he picks up a stick a draws into the yellow clay

a line and a wheel, a star and a turf.

Through the eye I fall into the drawing, flying through the red centre,

flying through the whirl of massacred bodies, iron droning all around my head,

pieces of skin whizzing centripetally, becoming needles

piercing through my open ear.

Then from afar I hear his voice, all wheezing, almost hissing:

An artist living for himself is a piece of shit.

A slimy piece of shit straight out of the arsehole of the world.

Just wait and see what time does to him.

I see a piece of shit,

A thousand pieces of shiny slimy Francoist shit.

And then I see nothing at all.

 

I awake on the ground,

I’m lying and cubic animals float across the skies,

I want to regurgitate all the artificial faeces

I’ve ever ingested,

I want to concentrate on the inside of my glass head,

which aches me maddeningly.

Inside my glass head wrath drones on.

It is a living wrath.

 

Resonating across all the hillocks of Barcelona.

 

 

BLUE: A BERLIN MEDITATION ON THE INNER COLOUR

 

with the cooling shot the morning has shifted

all the way to the chilling bottom

the body’s candle erected above the defeated bed sheets

every tear dropped to where it was meant to

and every itch registrable by the voice

as if the voice were whispering to the world

its unrepeatably debauched confession

 

I am testing out just how much stones screens and wings can carry

 

in the metro vestibule crowds gather

dolls with blue steel in their eyes

and jumping-jacks march in uniforms

someone laughs out loud, someone’s knees quiver with shame

someone plumps up black kilos

like a cushion

the air carries sighs suppressed

the colour throws everyone into blue ecstasy

 

Colour meditating about colour:

I shuffle the chessman

aim with the bishop

keep distance

martial green

squalls in the closest face

just to tussle

the caked hair

smelly dreadlocks

just to relish

another chilly fear

 

I undertake a research as I rush up and down the escalator

 

I’ve got a mobile laboratory, testing devices, samples of the inner colour

 

I’m equipped for disappointment of all kind I’m equipped for joys of all kind

 

one evasive manoeuvre can gain it all: a blossoming cherry-tree, a glossy weapon, a tattooed leg

one sidestep can get you off the wagon and let the feet fly let the feet carry themselves

 

I narrate new stories, new mythologies, discover new nooks

there are reactors droning in my mind, there are pigeons swooping down onto strewn glass in my mind

and women adjust their black hills of hair with their red nails,

they fix a blossom, attach with a pin and leave their bodies up to cinnamon –

dissolving as rapidly as they’ve originated from one single fold of mind

 

platinum light

falls onto the ground

pure lines of air

pure white stars

brushing my teeth, I operate on myself in mid-morn,

felling the chessmen, with one nimble punch I lose them all

I am the morning melancholy

 

I am the day melancholy

the clear shiny blueness

the clear shiny light

 

I metamorphose into a black line, a black letter, a black beast of prey

I leave the constricted flat, leave the dripping faucet, leave the paper walls

I float in the blueness like a Berlin Angel like a blue Angel

 

the blueness uplifts me                                                                 metallic blueness

I am the eagle                                                                 above the Brandenburger Tor

I land headlong

I fall

I lift myself from the ground    fiercely kicking around myself     to kick the world’s airy    bottom

I lift my hands toward the skies      aircraft aim southward     I see heads burning

I see bodies all heaped up    into a pile       I see shovels all weary

and I see black-and-white hands   fearing every swing of the wings      dreading the beetles

the black antennae     I dread the slowness    I dread the shuffle

I dread the broken chair    the room’s shitty corner    I dread the only

yellow tooth       in the black maw         of the only flash         in the dark

 

flexible metallic waves flow through my stomach  I turn into a puppet on a wire

 

drinking juice-box setting my watch according to TV meanwhile orchids turn into snakes

 

I attempt to fathom the change but get lost get lost among the fat bodies of journalists

 

among the chubby information interferences I try to find direction in the street  but even the scent of linden

 

changes in front of the nose into a black joke at whose end there is a lit pumpkin hand grenade cigar

 

I want to escape down the alley but there is nowhere to go I encounter black children I encounter their laughter turning into a prayer

 

into a clear blueness into a different blueness I see other children hands torn off heads torn off I see hunger

 

puffing out gaining on weight turning into a lizard swallowing more and more

 

I am replete with blueness and still my body hair stands on end still my heart races away

 

still I am mad I am madness born of the inner colour I am madness burgeoning from the palm of the world

 

I am a deranged seeker of Light I seek the Reflector

I seek the Flare

I seek

the Face

the blueness of the Silence holds me by the throat

my heart is held by the Player……………………………………………………………………

 

/Stars came up over Unter den Linden /

 

 

WINTER AT THE KAŠTEL STARI

 

The winter at the Starom Kaštel had a young body.

It lifted its waves high up, mirroring the island storm

in the glimmering high-voltage lashings, hurtling

through the streets in the precipitous desire to overflow the spring’s threshold.

With relish it overturned baskets, scattered litter,

laughing all berserk, tearing up flags

still with the five-pointed star,

and it was salty, salty underneath the heavy skies,

with their swift, gloomy schlepping.

The concrete movie theatre was showing The Ten Commandments with Heston.

It split the Red Sea in half, killing Egyptians.

The other movie hall was showing a porno.

Its span was liberating.

 

 

AMERICAN BEAUTY

 

My Dalmatian childhood was thoroughly American.

As American as a chewing gum, as American as Tom and Jerry,

I even kept bumping into Alfred Hitchcock in our backyard.

Dressed in a tuxedo, with a cigar in his mouth, plucking tomatoes.

I remember distinctly those black-and-white cooling fans,

their metal swishing and murderous speed

in those slow-motion takes.

 

I was taught capitalism by Dynasty. I was a bad pupil, though.

All I recall is that scheming woman

with pink lipstick and artificial hair.

What I dug the most was Popeye’s galactic throw

of the spinach from the can into the muscles

to the yelling of the black Olive.

Already before Velvet was I toying with the Duck.

 

It was only with Frank Sinatra that I fell head over heels,

the warm glide of his voice, the hardboiled detectives he enacted.

Safety and strength I derived mainly

from the Metro Goldwyn Mayer mane.

The American childhood near Split with a Czech mother

and a half-present Croatian father.

The halcyon days in a dark living-room with spacious

furniture a the shadow of a fig tree

– Coke as a reward to go with the TV.

 

 

A SCENT ASSAULT

 

Day pierced by a scent

the various variations of scent

The snowy membrane of everyday duties

Suddenly, again suddenly, punctures

through the fine essence of taste and notion

 

The Russian woman’s sweet perfume

Over the white folio of mortal poems

The scent bends down and I, stricken,

descend upon her invisible

outpoured body

 

The fall is pure bliss.

Suddenly a forest stands before me.

A little ambidextrous, looking out,

Ruffling up its fluff, the forest of scents

and it’s men and women

their snow a softened nape

 

Ignorant of how far the scent can

reach out, which lards it lightens up,

rather sleepily I beg the tram

to disappear for just a second.

It doesn’t

It is beyond the power of time not to be

 

Therefore I have to survive

the apple cinnamon vanilla

rosy musky onslaught

the terror of sweet tenderness

And, exposed to its apportioning,

I, the erotic bear, now know

This is… perhaps… why we… get born


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